


The Maw

by Malivrag



Category: Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, Yngwie Malmsteen - Fandom
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malivrag/pseuds/Malivrag
Summary: "Well, we're not sleeping together anymore." -- Yngwie Malmsteen when asked about Joe Lynn Turner.





	1. Chapter 1

"Play it again," Yngwie told him, three hours into rehearsal.

Joe Lynn gave him a wilting look, about ready to chuck his microphone at him. "I'm not singing 'Stone Cold' again, Yngwie," he told him. "I've already sung it twice for you. It's not even part of the set! Hey, now that's an idea, how about rehearsing our set, huh? That's the point of having rehearsals."

"PLAY IT AGAIN," thundered Yngwie, his boyishly handsome face contorting with anger. Panting, Joe shot a look at his bandmates. Barry Dunaway, the bassist, looked completely checked out. The Johansson twins -- they weren't really twins, but brothers, so alike that Joe could never tell them apart -- were whispering to one another. Both were sopping wet with sweat, their stringy hair plastered to their faces. To be honest, Joe hadn't had the worst of it today. They'd worked on their set for maybe 45 minutes, then Yngwie had made everyone play an instrumental from Deep Purple, "Lazy". After that, Joe had been compelled to sing Yngwie's favorites from his tenure in Rainbow: 'Stone Cold', 'I Can't Let You Go', 'I Surrender', 'Stone Cold' again, on and on till Joe was halfway convinced that the only reason he'd been asked to join this band was so that Yngwie could make him perform for him anytime he wanted. God, this was all a mistake, wasn't it? Joe had thought that if he could handle Ritchie Blackmore, he could handle anybody. But Yngwie was like a human cartoon, too much and too loud and too fast.

And Joe could never quite tell if Yngwie was drunk all the time or if he was just Swedish.

Disgusted, Joe dropped the mic on the ground. "I'm done," he announced. "Fire me, scream at me all you want. I'm done. I'm going for a break." He made for the back door of their rehearsal space.

Yngwie grabbed him by the upper arm. "Hey! No walking away from me!"

Joe whirled and gave him a shove. "You don't own me!"

Yngwie dropped his grip on him, seemingly out of shock that Joe had actually dared to lay hands on him. Most people were too scared to stand up to Yngwie, which only made his personality problems worse, in Joe's opinion. Yngwie was a big, intimidating son of a bitch, almost a head taller than Joe, and he'd bulldoze you if you let him.

When he'd agreed to join his band, Joe had assumed Yngwie was the same sort as Ritchie: his wooden guitar in his hands, his self the lightning that blackened it. But Ritchie was a stormbringer, and Yngwie was something else: something hungrier.

Yngwie stuck out his jaw, and tried another tactic. "Jolene," he called out after Joe, using that stupid nickname from years ago. "Jolene. You don't want to leave me, do you? You want to sing for me. So come back, come sing."

The Johansson twins tittered to one another.

"I'm not playing around with you," Joe told Yngwie. "Like I said, fire me if you want, but I'm taking a break. And when I get back, we'll rehearse the set. This isn't glorified karaoke, Yngwie! This is the music industry!"

"Industry," repeated Yngwie with an exaggerated groan. "No place for artistry. You come back, come sing." As Joe tried again to walk away, Yngwie ran up behind him and clasped his arms around him. Joe yelped as his feet left the ground, Yngwie sweeping him up into his arms like a heroine in a romance novel.

"Put me down!"

"We take a break, just like you say," cajoled Yngwie. It was a little terrifying being in his arms like this, held like a doll, and Joe struggled not to show any fear. He was carried over to a couch, where Yngwie lay him down. "See, we compromise. This is a musical partnership, like a marriage, it needs compromise, you know?"

Although he was now safe on the couch, Joe couldn't shake the feeling that he was in danger. Yngwie barked at his personal assistant to order in lunch, and they were joined shortly by the other musicians. The table in front of them began filling up with beers, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, and peanut shells.

The food arrived, and Yngwie passed a sandwich to Joe. "Eat up, Jolene," he said, laughing to show all his teeth.

"Don't call me that," snapped Joe. He'd hated that nickname when Ritchie had made it up. It was a reminder that other men thought of him as girly and petite and prissy. Other men always wanted to see him fail; but he was not a clay pigeon, made to be killed.

"I want a nickname, too," Yngwie told him. "Call me 'Oh God', like the other American girls like to call me."

"I'm not a girl, Yngwie!" Joe winged a pack of cigarettes at his head in fury.

Yngwie smiled at him, a wolfish smile. He bit into his sandwich with gusto. His eyes never left Joe. "I'm all appetite," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

When he was a kid, there was a book that Joe liked to read. It had terrified him and fascinated him at the same time. He would linger over one chapter in particular, in which the hero sought refuge in a little house on the edge of a dark forest. At night, the hero would look out the window and see the glowing yellow eyes of the wolves ringing the house, slavering at the mouth as they waited for him to fall asleep.

It sort of bothered Joe that he couldn't remember how the book ended. Did the wolves make the hero into their meat?

He thought about this as he stood before the mirror in his dressing room, applying his eye liner. A careful stroke, beneath the wet line of each eye; an artful smudge to make it just so. The door squeaked in protest as it was opened behind him, and Joe turned, mouth already open to yell at whoever dared to interrupt his pre-show ritual.

Yngwie filled the door frame. He was drunk; he was always drunk. His fingers moved, as they always did, constantly tapping out some unheard song. Joe wondered if music made a dull roar in Yngwie's head. It would explain why he listened to nothing else.

"Jolene," he said, his words syrupy and mocking.

Joe dropped his eye liner with a clatter. He cursed softly, hating the awkward moment where he had to kneel and feel around for it. He always wanted to face Yngwie head-on, look him in the eye, keep his back straight. He was older than Yngwie, more experienced. "That's not my name," he said, almost on reflex, as his fingers brushed the tube of eye liner. He went to rise to his feet.

Yngwie was on him in a moment, crowding him against the mirror. Joe startled, hating himself a little for showing weakness in front of Yngwie, and gave him a solid shove that barely moved him. "Hey, back off! The hell is wrong with you? We have a show in a few minutes."

Yngwie snapped his fingers. "Listen!" Faintly, they could hear the fans howling, their voices rising and rising. "Listen. There is no show without me. They will wait a few minutes. They will wait their lives away for me."

Rolling his eyes, Joe said, "Ugh, your ego should have a moon orbiting it."

"You love it, too. Don't lie to me or yourself. You love when they scream for you." Yngwie was still on top of him, what the fuck, this was so freaky -- Joe felt like Yngwie was breathing up all his oxygen, he was so close.

"Don't they have personal space in Sweden?" Joe asked pointedly.

Yngwie frowned. "I don't care what they have in Sweden. They don't have me anymore, and that's bad enough."

Joe opened his mouth to retort, but Yngwie grasped him by the chin and forced one of his fingers into Joe's mouth. Overcome with shock, Joe stared up at him. Yngwie's finger slid between his lips, traced the sharp edges of his teeth. It was totally out of line. It was bizarrely erotic.

Joe remembered in a heartbeat that his mouth was not made only for singing. He bit down, and Yngwie cried out loud, pulling back his injured finger and popping it into his own mouth to suck at the wound mournfully. He had not bitten hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to hurt.

"That was bad of you, Jolene," Yngwie reproached him.

Joe was made of raw nerves. Yngwie's touch had at once repulsed and thrilled him. This strangeness between them now had a form that Joe could no longer pretend not to see. He shoved past Yngwie and made for the door.

"Little wife will learn to behave," Yngwie called after him. He was still nursing his injured finger.

 _I'm not your fucking wife! You're not my husband! I don't belong to anybody!_ Joe thought, but couldn't voice. He didn't know what they were anymore. His own arms and legs felt foreign and he could taste Yngwie in his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

Joe circled around the back of the recording studio, finding a lonesome spot where no one was smoking. The last thing he needed was to inhale cigarette smoke -- guitar players could perform drunk and sloppy, but singers had to take care of themselves. His voice was his instrument. He'd worked well into the night putting some finishing touches on the vocal tracks, and he was about ready to head back to the hotel room he shared with Yngwie and get some rest.

He leaned his back against the building's wall, one knee bent up behind him. He was alone out here, but unconcerned; a bright street light drenched the area in light. Joe tried hard not to think about anything in particular. He didn't even want to think about the album, because that would mean thinking about Yngwie.

 _Living in hotels is no way to live_ , Joe thought to himself. Maybe I should buy a house in L.A. Fuck, if he did that, Yngwie would probably move production of the next album back to Europe or somewhere, and Joe would be stuck living in a hotel in Sweden or -- Joe caught himself. Who even said there would be another album? They might not even make it through this upcoming tour. Joe wasn't even sure he'd make it through another rehearsal. Maybe he should quit, run back to Jersey, and get a job singing at weddings. Make his family happy.

A sports car roared up and screeched to a halt right in front of him. The passenger-side door popped open. "Get in!" Yngwie's distinctive voice commanded.

Hesitantly, Joe stepped into the illumination of the street light. "Have you been waiting for me to come out of the recording studio?" he asked, bending over at the waist to peer into the car.

It was past ten at night, and Yngwie was wearing sunglasses. He had on leather pants and a leopard-print shirt. "And is everything you own made out of a dead animal?" Joe went on.

"Get in the car, I'm giving you a ride to the hotel," Yngwie said.

Joe clambered into the passenger's seat. "I'm not sure riding with you is good for my health. You wrapped one of these around a tree not long ago, remember?"

"Was drunk then," said Yngwie with a shrug. "Not drunk now."

"You're a maniac," muttered Joe. The car door slammed and they took off at such speed that Joe's head snapped back. "Ahh! Where is the seat belt in this thing?!"

"You worry too much," Yngwie said. He took off his sunglasses and tossed them carelessly into the back seat. Thank God for small mercies. "I'm not going to crash. And if I do, I survived one before, I'll survive again."

"Like hell you did!" Joe snapped. "I saved your damn life, in case you've forgotten. They were gonna pull the plug on you before I got on the phone and talked the record company into paying your hospital bill!" That had been one of the most insane experiences of his life; he'd barely met Yngwie before the car crash had put him in a coma and nearly ended his life. Somehow, Yngwie had come out of the coma and now played guitar better than ever, because he was a freak of nature or something.

Yngwie chuckled to himself. "Yes, Big Eyes, I remember."

Big Eyes? It was better than Jolene anyway, so Joe decided to let it go. They took a sharp turn that sent Joe flying into the car door. "Slow down, damn it!"

Yngwie shot him a look that was positively predatory. "Always begging me to slow down. I think what you really want is more." They raced along, blowing through an intersection just a split second after the light changed from red to green.

"We won't always be that lucky," Joe told Yngwie, as they took another turn so tight that the wheels hit the curb. "You try that crap again, and we'll get t-boned by a semi truck."

"You're wrong," laughed Yngwie. "I'm very lucky man! I got everything I ever wanted. I am greatest guitarist on Earth. I have money, cars, vodka, women..." He trailed off but looked over at Joe again in such a way that Joe got a creeping feeling of possession, as though, unspoken, he was included in those spoils.

"Keep your eyes on the road," said Joe through gritted teeth.

Yngwie turned back to look out the window, but a smile was playing on his lips. He reached down to grasp the car's stick and changed gears. The sports car jerked wildly.

Joe switched tactics, trying the one thing he knew could always manipulate Yngwie. "Ritchie would never drive like a maniac," he said. "He doesn't even drive himself, he always has his chauffeur drive him around."

This time it seemed he misjudged, because instead of shaming Yngwie into calming down, Joe's comments sent him into a frenzy of gear-shifting and peddle mashing. Reaching down between them, Yngwie even grabbed the car phone and flung it into Joe's lap. "Call him then! Call Blackmore, I don't care!"

Joe clutched at the phone but didn't dare dial Ritchie's number. What the hell would he say? "I thought you hero-worshiped him," he told Yngwie.

"I was like a boy standing in awe in the house of God," said Yngwie. "But now I am godlike. I have the best from him."

The brakes screeched as they pulled up in front of the hotel. Joe angrily reached over and smacked Yngwie in the side of the head. "You could've killed us!"

Yngwie grabbed him by the hand and shoved him, but then he closed the space between them. Joe found himself on his back, his legs wedged in the narrow foot board, with Yngwie practically on top of him.

A strand of Yngwie's hair was tickling the side of his face. His weight was crushing the life out of him. They were close enough to kiss. Joe's heart started racing -- whether from fear that Yngwie would kiss him, or anticipation of a kiss, he couldn't say.

Yngwie silently reached up and unlocked the passenger-side door. He shifted a bit so that Joe sat up, and the door popped open. Joe climbed out on shaking legs. He slammed the door and Yngwie roared off without a word.


	4. Chapter 4

Joe didn't sleep much that night.

For one thing, he was in their shared hotel room, and it unnerved him, knowing that Yngwie could walk in the door at any moment. At one point, Joe even got up, threw his stuff in his bag, and almost walked out to book himself into another room. He couldn't quite say why he stayed... he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he ran away from Yngwie, not only would Yngwie never respect him, but Joe would lose some respect for himself. But his pride wasn't the entire reason. There was a part of him that yearned to see this through. He even regretted not kissing Yngwie in the car. What would he have done, if I had kissed him? Joe wondered. He felt sure that Yngwie was more comfortable playing the aggressor. Would Yngwie have kissed him back? Panicked and punched him?

He lay in bed, suspended in that twilight state between waking and sleeping, his naked limbs twisted in the sheets. The sound of a key in the lock roused him from the bed.

Blearily, Joe looked over at the clock sitting on the nightstand between the two beds. "It's almost five in the morning, where the hell have you been?" he snapped irritably at Yngwie as he staggered into the room.

He turned on the bedside lamp to find Yngwie looking like absolute hell. The whites of his eyes were red and he clearly hadn't slept a wink.

"Awww, little wife missed me," said Yngwie, sitting on the edge of his bed and prying his shoes off. He flung one shoe over his shoulder, where it clunked against the wall.

"Stop calling me that!" said Joe, his bravado coming to the forefront. "I'm not your wife. And you don't own me."

Yngwie's other shoe flew over his shoulder, landing with a thunk. "What did you say?"

"You heard me!"

Yngwie was much bigger than him, but he moved with a speed that belied his size, as though no one had ever properly explained mass and so forth to him. Joe tried to rise up to meet him, but Yngwie's momentum took them both down onto his bed. Joe squirmed against him, grunting out, "Get off me," but Yngwie forced his way between his legs. Jesus fuck, he's not drunk enough to have whisky dick, thought Joe as panic and adrenaline raced through him at the sensation of Yngwie's hard dick pressing against him through a couple thin layers of fabric.

Yngwie seemed seemed pleased with himself once he realized he had Joe well and truly pinned beneath him. "You stayed up worrying about me, hmmm?" he asked, flicking a strand of hair away that had gotten caught in the corner of Joe's mouth. "Don't worry. I come home to you." He brushed his mouth along the side of Joe's face, inhaling deeply and blowing hot air next to his ear. "You even smell good. So good to all my senses."

Yngwie's rough cheek brushing all the sensitive spots on his neck was sending tingles of pleasure all the way to Joe's toes. Desperately, he said, "I'm a man, Yngwie! We can't do this -- I'm -- and you're--"

Yngwie pulled back just a bit, so that Joe could see his eyes go mockingly wide. "You are a man! Really? I never noticed." He wedged a hand between Joe's legs and cupped him. His eyes went wide again, but from genuine surprise this time. "Oh, you are liking this," he purred, burying his face in Joe's neck again while squeezing and stroking Joe's cock in his hand.

Joe thought he was about to lose his fucking mind. He'd gone to bed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, and Yngwie had those worked halfway down his thighs in no time. The calluses on Yngwie's hands hurt and felt good at the same time; he felt almost dizzy from the sensations.

Joe smacked him in the face, as hard as he could.

Yngwie's head snapped to the side. He snorted softly, then sat up and surged forward, almost bucking against Joe. One hand pinned down Joe's shoulder, the other grabbed him by the right hand and forced that down as well. His thumb caressed the tendons in Joe's wrist, touching each one like a guitar string.

"What is the matter?" Yngwie asked him, his voice throaty and his accent so thick he was almost indecipherable. "You want me. I can feel it." He punctuated this with a grind of his hips that left Joe biting his lip.

"If we do this, there's no going back, Yngwie," said Joe. "Nothing will ever be the same again."

"We don't live to stay the same," retorted Yngwie, that lower lip jutting out in a pout. "I think you are ashamed to want this, you know? Like a blushing girl. You need me to bite you on the ear when I pop your cherry." He leaned in again, taking the edge of Joe's earlobe between his teeth and giving it the slightest nip, just enough to make Joe jump and squeal.

Joe thrashed against him, and this time Yngwie sat back, giving him a respite that only lasted as long as it took for Yngwie to shed his leather pants. He wasn't wearing anything underneath; what a surprise. Joe scooted up against the headboard of the bed, drawing his legs up to hide his erection.

"Have you ever been with a man before?" asked Joe. He was almost shaking with nerves. "I mean, I never have, but I'm pretty sure it's different than making love to a pretty girl."

"No," said Yngwie, before pulling Joe back to him, pushing between his legs again and thrusting up against him. He grabbed at his hair, pulling painfully, while mouthing at his neck and the hollow of his throat. "But I'm young, there is lots for me to try, you know? And you look good enough to eat!"

Joe almost went into another meltdown at the feeling of Yngwie's cock touching him, sliding by his balls as though seeking entrance. "Is this really happening right now?" he gasped.

Yngwie's mouth brushed against his. "Kiss me, Joe," he said softly. "Please, kiss me with that mouth."

Shaking, Joe parted his lips, letting Yngwie taste him. His tongue dipped in, licking, caressing, seducing. They were tangled in the sheets, and they had to kick them off before they could go further. Yngwie's arm locked around his body, drawing him even closer. Their lips touched, and Joe let his eyes shut, dropping his guard.

Yngwie pinned him down and in one smooth motion, entered him. Joe screamed against his mouth. His lungs heaved; he locked his arms around Yngwie's neck and held on tightly. To center himself. To choke the life out of Yngwie. It was raw and unprepared and it hurt. He could actually _feel_ Yngwie inside his body.

It was much hotter than it had any right to be.

"You are splitting me in fucking half," Joe snarled into Yngwie's ear. He clawed at his back and felt some satisfaction at feeling the skin rip beneath his nails. Yngwie thrust into him again and another scream was torn from Joe.

Yngwie's face was in rapture. His mouth was slack, his eyes fluttering open and closed. He looked like a man who's gone through Hell and made it to the promised land. He thrust again, and this time Joe's scream was followed by, "What the hell was that?!"

"Feel good?" Yngwie asked, looking a little smug. Joe stared up at him fiercely.

"You son of a bitch, you _son of a fucking bitch_ \-- oh, my god!"

There was something deep inside Joe, someplace that had never been touched before, and every time Yngwie moved inside him it sent waves of sensation coursing through his body. Joe couldn't help it; he threw his head back and arched his spine. Fucking hell, the pleasure was overriding the pain.

Yngwie watched him come with a look of amazement on his face. Whatever he'd been expecting to happen, it was clearly not that. With another thrust, he too finished, collapsing against Joe in a sticky, messy heap.

Grunting, Joe shoved at him. "Gross." His head was still swimming from the orgasm, but cruel reality was starting to set back in. His ass hurt and he was pretty sure he was bleeding. He'd scratched Yngwie to hell, and they were both covered in cum. He'd even ripped out a chunk of Yngwie's hair.

Yngwie clambered to all fours and rolled Joe over onto his stomach. Freaking out at the thought of a second round, Joe barked, "No! I'll bleed to death if you--"

"I'm not going to fuck you, okay?!" said Yngwie. His voice actually sounded a little strained, as though he were upset. Joe was so astonished he actually calmed down a little, waiting to see what Yngwie would do.

Yngwie examined him intently and then said, "I didn't think I hurt you so bad! Fuck!"

"What did you think would happen?" Joe asked, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "It's not a pussy, Yngwie! You just shoved your whole dick in me."

Yngwie fell silent, thinking hard about what he wanted to say next. "You want I should call for the hospital?"

He said it in his signature questionably grammatical, rapid-fire manner, so that Joe for a moment could hardly figure out what he meant. "You mean 911? I... I..." Joe blew a huff of air from between his lips. "I don't think so. I don't think I'm permanently maimed or anything."

Yngwie went limp in relief, his shoulders dropping and his head bowing. "It hurts? Yeah? Lay there, I got something. Fuck, I didn't know..." he said. He got up and dug through his bag, producing some antibiotic ointment and dabbing it onto a tissue. Joe watched him, confusing thoughts crossing his mind. He'd liked whatever that was that Yngwie had been touching deep inside of him -- but goddamn it had hurt -- go to the hospital? And tell them what? 'Oh, the guitar-player in my band fucked me in the ass and that's why I'm bleeding in your ER.' Get out, it would be all over the papers and he'd be the laughingstock of music.

Yngwie sat beside him and pressed the tissue to Joe's entrance with as much delicacy as he was capable of. Joe lay there and watched Yngwie watching him. Yngwie's free hand rested on the small of his back, then, perhaps subconsciously, began rubbing gentle circles. The effect was soothing, and Joe felt himself begin to relax.

"I didn't know I tear you up like this," Yngwie said mournfully.

"Yeah, well, that's what's called consequences," Joe told him.


End file.
